


Louder than words

by Kendas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22629829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendas/pseuds/Kendas
Summary: She had only heard him speak once, and that fascinated her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Louder than words

**Disclaimer:** _Not mine, sadly this all still belongs to J.K.Rowling. I still haven't got that castle in Scotland or that fabulous bank account which would allow me to go and raid Waterstones, though I do almost own a house now._  
**A.N.** This isn’t new, trying to upload old works from my livejoumal that I hadn’t before. This was quite an early one.

**Louder than Words**

Hermione could feel him watching her, but every time she looked up, he would cast his eyes down at that pad again. It was rather infuriating. She wondered if he was plotting some nefarious plan against her and if the pad was for scribbling his ideas down on, because she really could not see what was so fascinating about her otherwise.

She had come outside to read her book in peace, away from the noisy celebrations in Gryffindor tower. That afternoon had been the final Quidditch game of the year. The final Quidditch game at Hogwarts for Harry, Ron and herself for that matter; they would be leaving in a matter of weeks. Gryffindor had played and beaten Ravenclaw, stealing the cup from Slytherin once again. 

The common room had been a riot of activity and celebrations ever since, and while Hermione had enjoyed joining in with her friends’ celebrations earlier on, the pull of the current novel that she was reading had proved too much as the afternoon had moved into evening. Hence her subtle retreat to the peace and quiet under the cool shade that the willow trees beside the lake provided. 

However, _he_ had already been here. _He_ always was. With his intense brown eyes that looked more like they should belong to the occupant of an Egyptian mural than a teenage boy, short, dark dreadlocks that hung in front of those eyes that Hermione did not find beautiful while he scribbled away, those strong, high cheekbones that she had heard Lavender claim any girl would die for, and those plump full lips that she definitely did not watch nibble on the end of his brush as he thought. He was just entirely too irritating, and so far the insistent scratching of his pencil and the constant tinkling noise as he washed out his brush in the small glass jar of water beside him had caused her to read the same page of _Jude the Obscure_ three times in the last five minutes.

Why was he not inside, anyhow, with the rest of his House, bemoaning their loss and plotting their undoubted revenge? 

The sad thing was that Hermione already knew the answer; _he_ was different from the rest of his House. So far, Hermione had made a list of seven reasons why _he_ was so different, not that she had paid much attention to him or that she was even that interested in him at all.

The first point on the list was that in the seven years she had spent at Hogwarts, not one ‘Mudblood’ or derisive comment about her heritage, hair or teeth had passed his lips. However, that said, Hermione had only ever heard him speak once in those same seven years. It had been to Theodore Nott during their sixth year and he had been correcting his fellow Slytherin on the twelve uses of dragon blood. And it most certainly was not a reflection of Hermione’s fascination with him that she had committed the melodic and quietly commanding sound of his voice to memory.

That was the second difference about him; he was quiet. Fading into the background, whereas the other members of his House preferred to make their presence known. Hermione knew almost nothing about him, other than the fact that his mother was supposedly a beautiful and famous femme-fatal and that his grades equalled hers in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. He was a mystery to her, and Hermione could not resist a puzzle.

The third difference on her list was that he was willing to touch her without having to _Scourgify_ his hands for germs afterwards. It had happened at the beginning of this year, the very beginning, on the Hogwarts Express, in fact. Hermione had been doing her rounds, the Head Girl badge proudly fixed to her school robes as she made her way through the train. She had been slipping past him in the narrow passage, trying to ignore her quickened pulse, when the train had come to an abrupt stop and she had been thrown forward by the sudden halt in movement. Strong arms had shot out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her back and against a tall, lean body. Large, dark chocolate hands had stayed splayed across her hip and lower back just a moment longer than necessary, and she definitely did not lean in to sniff the spicy scent of their owner’s aftershave before he slipped away with just a curt nod of his head.

The fourth was that he did not seem to hang onto Malfoy’s every word like the rest of his House. In fact, she had rarely observed him paying the obnoxious blonde Slytherin any heed at all. The only member of his House that he seemed to engage in any interaction with was again Theodore Nott. But given differences one and three, that was not much of a statement of their friendship.

The fifth difference was that he had never seemed to once bother over the rivalry between Slytherin and the other Houses. The times when their two Houses had faced off or when one had won a victory over the other, he had just slipped past, or back into the shadows, never once interfering.

The sixth on her list was that he read Muggle books, or had read at least one. She had caught him one night two months earlier, sitting in the back of the library reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_. She had only watched him read the book for half an hour because she was so fascinated by the idea of that a Slytherin would read such a book and not because of the way he looked in the small, silver-framed glasses he wore when he read, a mask of fascination on his face.

The seventh and final difference was one that Hermione had only recently discovered and added to her list. He talked to Dumbledore. Well, perhaps talk was a little bit of a strong description for their interaction given what she already knew of his quiet ways. But she was sure that he must talk to the Headmaster at some point, because she had seen him slipping from behind the stone gargoyle on the second floor and he was never in a bad mood when he left, so she was certain that he had not been in trouble.

Yes, Blaise Zabini was different, but Hermione maintained that she was only interested in him because he piqued her curiosity and not because she wondered what that voice would sound like saying her name, or how those hands would feel spread against her skin once more, sans clothing, or even how she would feel to be the subject of all the fascination that she had seen him direct towards that book.

_‘At dusk that evening he went into the garden and dug a shallow hole._ ’ Hermione read the line again for perhaps the seventh time in the last ten minutes, before she felt the heat of that gaze directed at her once more.

She closed her book and placed it down. That was it. She had finally had enough; she was going to confront him. Ask him just what he kept staring at.

Hermione pushed herself up from the slightly dampening ground, smoothing out the pleated grey skirt she wore and straightening the pony tail that was currently fighting to control her hair, and made her way out from under her tree to confront the exasperating boy who had quickly shot his gaze back down to his pad, yet again.

Huffing slightly, Hermione pushed aside the hanging branches of the Slytherin’s own willow tree and slipped beneath, coming to stand in front of him with her arms folded and a frown on her face.

“Why do you keep coming here?” she demanded in her most bossy tone.

He looked up at her, cocking his head to the side for a moment before quirking his lips and holding up the pad and brush in his hands by way of an answer.

Hermione huffed at the silent answer.

“To draw?”

He nodded his affirmation, his dreadlocks falling in his eyes as he did so and making Hermione want to reach out and sweep them back off his face.

“Fine! But why do you keep watching me then?”

His head rolled to the other side, his slight smile still firmly in place and he indicated the pad and brush once more.

Hermione shook her head, not quite understanding at first what his gesture was implying, before comprehension dawned and her mouth formed a soft, _‘Oh.’_

“You’re drawing me? Why?”

He watched her silently for a few moments, before smirking and casting a thoroughly male, appreciative glance over her body, causing Hermione to flush bright red under the weight of his slow-moving gaze.

“Why?” she squeaked, only to find that his response was to just roll his eyes at her.

“But I’m a Muggle-born?” she said again, and it was a question, not a statement. She really did not understand this at all.

He shrugged, frustrating her further.

“But I’m a Gryffindor?” she added.

He shrugged again, his hand raising the paintbrush to his mouth where he promptly sucked the end between his lips, nibbling and sucking on it in what may have been a completely unconscious and innocent gesture, but was in fact one that Hermione found entirely too distracting.

“Stop that!” she shot out, trying to ignore the way her voice broke over the words.

His head moved to the side again and he raised an elegant black eyebrow in a silent, _‘what?’_

“That thing with the brush.”

He removed it and looked at the long, narrow stem of the paintbrush for a moment. Black paint was beginning to crack around the end where his teeth had bitten into the wood. He glanced back up at Hermione, a grin spreading on his face as he cast another glance over her increasingly flushed form. Another arch of his eyebrows, but this time there was a gleam in his eye that was decidedly predatory as he wordlessly asked _‘why?’_

“Be… Because…” Hermione ran her hand through her hair, dislodging it from the band in places. “Because it’s distracting, that’s why,” she groused.

His grin turned into a leer and long fingers twined their way around the brush’s stem before lowering it to whirl it in the pot of surprisingly clear water at his side, once again making the familiar tinkling sound as he did so. 

_He must have a charm on the jar,_ Hermione thought absently as she let herself watch the movement of his hand over the delicate wood.

She shook herself out of the daze she had fallen into, trying to ignore the fact that she could feel her nipples straining against her cotton bra and the tingling warmth spreading down through her stomach, lower.

“I was trying to read,” she harrumphed at him, her hands now on her hips.

He threw her an innocent look, his one hand tossing out to the side as if to say, _‘so?’_

“Do you ever say anything?” she complained angrily.

He smirked at her and inclined his head in a brief nod.

“Well, would you mind gracing me with a verbal answer perhaps, instead of these irritating little gestures?”

He did not answer, just let his smile widen as he absently raised the now clean brush to his mouth once more, this time brushing the soft, wet bristles against his lower lip.

“You are doing that on purpose, aren’t you? You’re just trying to annoy me now. I’ve had enough,” Hermione snapped, frustrated by both his refusal to provide her with verbal answers to her questions and by the fact that she was feeling increasingly aroused by the mysterious Slytherin. She turned on her heel and began to stride away, her arms swinging by her side.

Warm, dextrous fingers shot out and curled around her hand, pulling her back towards the boy that was now leaning forward with that damned smirk still clinging to his full mouth. 

As she turned, preparing to hit him with a scathing comment about how exasperating she found him, he gave her hand a firm tug and pulled her to stand before him. He was watching her carefully, calculatingly as he slipped the pad closed and moved it to the ground before raising his other hand to her hip and pulling her sharply down to him.

Hermione had definitely not been expecting that and, in her surprise she stumbled and fell against his chest, her hands reaching out to grip his shoulders in order to steady herself as her knees grazed the ground on either side of his legs.

“Ouch! What do you think you are doing?” Hermione grumbled, trying to pull herself away and out of the rather suggestive position that she had been forced into by his sudden demand.

He smiled at her. A broad warm smile that left her decidedly suspicious of his intentions. Hands spread across her back, pulling her tighter against him and stroking down to rest just above the curve of her arse, and Hermione could not help the shiver that followed them as the memory of that moment in the train came back to her with surprising clarity. 

He licked his lips, pink tongue darting out to run slowly over first his upper lip and then his lower one, and all the time his gaze was trained on Hermione’s eyes.

“Let me go!” she said, but it was weak and there was no real determination behind the request. The wriggle of her hips as she squirmed against him did not back up the demand; in fact it seemed to be contradicting it.

He raised his eyebrow, as if asking if she really wanted him to do that.

She was really starting to hate that eyebrow. _How can one pair of eyebrows be so expressive?_ she thought. But all thought was suddenly stripped from her mind as she felt something wet and feathery trail down the side of her cheek. 

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed and she bit down on her lip to contain a sigh. The paintbrush, for that was what she was sure it was, trailed under her jaw, up over the curve of her chin and across her lips in much the same way that its owner had moved it across his own moments earlier. Then it was gone and instead the warm, plump flesh of someone else’s lips were brushing against her own. 

His tongue darted out and followed the path that the brush had taken, licking up the trail of water that it had left and leaving one of its own behind. His tongue withdrew and his lips continued to follow the trail of the brush, down under her chin, up across her jaw and cheek to her ear, where he sucked the lobe inside his warm mouth, nibbling on the tender flesh and causing Hermione to whimper and turn to jelly in his arms. 

He chuckled at the sound. His hot breath blew across her ear, and Hermione marvelled at the sound of his deep, low laugh that did nothing to help stop the heat pooling between her spread thighs.

His face was back in front of her when she finally opened her eyes. He was smirking in satisfaction at her, and for a moment Hermione felt like she was part of some huge joke, before his lips descended on hers again. 

The first time they had been gentle, teasing, barely brushing the skin of her own, but this time the kiss was more forceful, bruising even. She found herself being pulled hard against his body, her breasts pressed almost flat against his chest as he took possession of her mouth, nipping and suckling at it, sliding his tongue, _that tongue_ , between her lips to stroke against her own, then pulling her tongue into his own mouth to do the same. 

When he pulled away again, Hermione felt the cool, wet tickle of the brush once again against the skin of her face as he trailed it down over her slightly sore lips as she gasped for breath.

She swallowed, studying him carefully before daring to speak. “Why did you do that?”

He smiled at her, trailing the brush down neck and over her collarbone as he thrust his hips against her, attempting to provide her with an answer.

Hermione stiffened as she suddenly recognised the reason for the hard length that was pressed against her, and panic flared in her eyes. 

“Is this a joke?” she asked quickly, casting a quick glance around to see if there were other Slytherins watching and waiting to humiliate her.

The brush pressed into her cheek, turning her back around to face him, and she was surprised by the concern she read in his eyes and he fervently shook his head.

“Do you promise?” she asked, almost hating herself for the weakness that question implied.

He nodded at her and pulled her forward to brush her lips with his again.

Hermione smiled shyly at him as he drew back and watched as the tension that had risen in his face at her fear dissipated.

Suddenly, she was being shifted in his arms as he moved to lay her back against the grass and kneel above her. One hand cradled her head while the other slid over her hip to tug her shirttails from her skirt. His eyes were fixed on hers, as though he was watching for any sign that she should want him to stop. And though Hermione knew she should, she really could not resist the draw of that intense gaze of his or that hot, contradictory mouth or those talented fingers that were currently deftly un-fastening the buttons of her shirt.

When the last one popped free he lifted her slightly from the ground and slipped it from her shoulders, brushing kisses across them as he removed the fabric from her body. He leaned back and looked at her approvingly, letting his eyes slowly roam her upper torso until Hermione began to feel rather self-conscious.

Her hands lifted to cover herself, one crossing her breasts and the other trying to hide the curve of her belly from his view.

He shook his head, irritation at her action shining in his eyes as his hands shot out to pull her own hands away and to the side. The look he gave her was chastising and his hands pulled hers up together above her head, and he held them clasped together as he leant in to kiss her once more, his body settling atop of hers for a moment. Then she felt his free hand slip under her back, seeking out the clasp of her bra and she barely registered the pop as it snapped open.

He was pulling back again taking the white cotton garment with him.

This time Hermione kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see a flare of disappointment in his eyes as he looked at her and wondering why she had let him go so far as to remove both her shirt and her bra.

Then she felt the soft, wet tip of his paintbrush again, this time behind her right ear, and her eyes shot open at the cool, ticklish sensation. There was something different though this time, she thought as she watched his eyes follow the path of the brush. The residue it left behind felt slightly thicker than before.

He trailed the brush down her neck in a twining line that drifted across her collarbone and over the curve of her shoulder, before slipping under the side of one breast and following that curve around to trail down over her stomach. As the brush reached the end of its path, dipping lightly to swirl into her belly button, he leaned in to place a kiss on the flesh just below it and looked up at her with hooded eyes.

It was then Hermione realised what was different about the brush this time. It was saturated with green paint and as she realised it she could feel the cool summer evening air drifting across her exposed skin and beginning to dry the trail, making the skin beneath prickle.

He smirked up at her, dropping the brush to the ground before his hands settled on the clasp of her skirt on her hip, undoing the button and sliding the Muggle zip down with ease. His tongue licked a path down, swirling over her hip bone before he began to move back. His eyes were still on her he slipped a hand once more beneath her back, moving it down under the waist band of her skirt to spread across her arse and lift her up so that he could remove the garment.

He dragged it slowly down her legs and as he removed it, he placed a light kiss on the white cotton panties that covered a dark thatch of hair beneath. He chuckled again as she shivered, the warm, mellifluous sound making her tingle even more as it drifted and vibrated across the skin of her thighs.

He raised first her left foot, then her right as he followed the banishment of her skirt with her shoes and socks. Then he rose above her again, kissing her once more.

She really should stop this now, she thought as she found herself arching against him and his tongue once again seeking hers. But it felt so good and she really did not want it to stop or for the fascinating mystery above her to pull away. Her arms reached out and wrapped around him, surprised at the strong muscles she could feel beneath the linen of his shirt as he braced himself above her.

“Blaise, I haven’t…” she said nervously against his nipping mouth.

He looked down at her, smiling softly, reassuringly, before raising his finger to her lips and mouthing a silent _‘shh.’_

She could not help but feel exasperated that even his _shh’s_ were silent. That irritation was quickly drowned out, however, as she felt one of her legs being lifted up onto his shoulder and her foot being kissed tenderly as he once again began to trail the paintbrush over her skin. This time he weaved a dark green stem of paint from her ankle down to just below the apex of her thighs. He wove smaller strands out from this, creating a complex structure of vines and leaves. 

It was with some fascination and awe that through the haze his actions were subsequently weaving in her head, Hermione realised that the vines were grape vines. Every now and again, he would brush some particularly sensitive spot of skin that would make her arch off the ground and long from contact somewhere else. But he had made no move in that direction except that one chaste kiss as he removed her skirt.

He swapped legs and began to weave more vines up her other leg. This time, instead of the white grapes on her left leg’s vines, he painted red grapes. Hermione groaned and whimpered as he painted a butterfly perched on one of the vine leaves just below the hem of her pants.

She watched drunkenly as he washed the brush out and lowered her leg to the ground, sucking one of her toes into his mouth for a moment before letting her foot go and moving back up above her.

Hermione started as he removed a small, sheathed knife from his pocket. It was one that she had seen him use to sharpen his pencils with in the past.

“What?” she squeaked, eyes wide and darting between him and the small silver knife.

He was looking at her soothingly and traced a finger over her jaw, while un-sheathing the knife and sliding it up under the side of her pants, and silently begging for her permission to continue. 

Hermione almost said no, but then she saw the hesitancy and need within his eyes and remembered how gentle he had been with her so far and she inclined her head in consent.

The sharp noise of ripping fabric cut through the evening air, quickly followed by a second rip as he did the same to the other side of Hermione’s pants, pulling the ruined garment from under her bum and tossing it away to reside with her other abandoned clothes.

Fingers feathered through the soft curls between her thighs, while Hermione watched him watching her. 

There was something inexorably unfair, Hermione thought, about their current positions; he was still completely clothed while she had lost every article of her own clothing. She chuckled and reached up to start undoing the buttons of his grey shirt, grinning shyly as he smirked down in delight at her participation.

Her fingers were struggling with the last of his shirt’s buttons when she first felt his fingers slip down and graze over her clit before one dipped inside of her. 

Hermione gasped and bucked against his hand, her fingers clenching in the fabric of his shirt. Unconsciously Hermione ripped the final button off, pulling the two shirttails apart and not even noticing as it popped free to be lost among the long grass where they lay.

Her eyes rolled closed and she sucked in a breath, her hands seeking the smooth skin of his chest that she had now revealed and she pulled him down for a kiss.

Their lips met once more in another bruising kiss as he allowed a second finger to join the first, the pad of his thumb continuing to rub circles against her clit.

“Blaise, please?” she sighed out, not really caring anymore about the fact that he still had yet to speak to her or that she was about to lose her virginity in a semi-public place.

His fingers began to spread and curl inside her, stretching her. Hermione felt a slight tear and looked up in surprise and slight discomfort at Blaise, who silently shushed her once more before peppering her face with light kisses.

Her hands slipped down, pulling at the buttons of his trousers until they were undone and she was able to push them down over his hips, allowing his erection to bob free and begin to leak a slight trail of pre-come over her abdomen. She curled her fingers around it nervously, watching his face for a reaction and being rewarded by a sharp in take of breath. 

Suddenly, his fingers disappeared and when Hermione looked up about to protest their loss and the building tension she had begun to feel, she saw him once again dipping his paintbrush into the paint and him bringing it up her stomach, where he proceeded to carefully trace an unfamiliar rune upon her abdomen. 

Hermione looked up at him in confusion and was contemplating asking him what the rune was when she noticed the paintbrush being discarded for another stem of wood, his wand. Comprehension dawned as she recognised some of the Latin words in the incantation he murmured quietly. It was the first words he had said since she had approached him and so distracted was she by the sound of his voice speaking what she presumed was a contraception charm of some kind, that she almost missed the rune on her stomach flare a bright blue before it faded into her skin.

A hand lifted each of her legs in turn, wrapping them around his waist and Hermione trailed her own hands back up to his chest, one wrapping around his neck as he positioned himself. He looked at her and silently questioned if this was definitely what she wanted. At her nod and the touch of her lips to his, he thrust inside.

It did not hurt. That was her first thought. There was some discomfort as she adjusted to having him within her, but nothing too bad and she was beginning to feel a need for something more. She wiggled her hips against him and was rewarded with another chuckle as he drew back and then thrust back inside her, his eyes locking on hers as one hand braced him and the other sought out the small bundle of nerves that he had been lazily strumming earlier.

He built up an agonisingly slow rhythm, rocking against her slowly, while working at her clit with his free hand. Swirling his hips against hers. Nipping the flesh of her throat and ear. Sucking her nipples between his teeth to tease and lave them.

Hermione whimpered below him, thrusting back against him. Her short nails scraping across his back under his open shirt, digging into the flesh of his buttocks and desperately trying to urge him faster. She could feel something building within her, hot, achy tension twining around her womb. She was so close!

Above her, he arched his back suddenly and she felt him twitch within her as his climax started to wash over him, her name dripping from his lips in a sigh.

It was only the second time she had heard him speak, bar the contraception charm and it was better than the first. It was everything she had imagined her name to sound like coming from him, commanding velvet, laced with desire and lust, like expensive chocolate, it felt slightly wicked. It was all she had needed to tip her over the edge and be able to join him in her own climax. His name a reply to his previous demand as it fell from her lips.

Hermione felt limp. He had collapsed on top of her, his nose buried against her throat and he was panting against her skin as they both recovered.

He rolled onto his back, slipping from within her as he did so before pulling her onto her side to curl into him. He smirked down at her, something smug sparkling in his eyes.

“You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” Hermione murmured, tracing his jaw with her thumb.

He nodded slowly and cocked an eyebrow at her, smiling back as he did so.

“Yes, well, I suppose you do have quite a good reason, don’t you?”

He inclined his head, the smile gone and the smirk back in its stead.

“Are you ever going to say anything more than my name?” she sighed.

He looked at her for a long minute in which Hermione felt far more naked than she had during the entire encounter; she quickly looked away from him.

“I was planning on saying your name quite frequently if that helps with your desire to hear my voice. And, I must admit it does sound rather enchanting when I say it. As does mine on your lips too,” the long remembered sultry voice of the man beside her purred.

Hermione looked up in shock, and glared as she saw the amusement sparkling in those eyes that were far too pretty to belong to a man.

“What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes at her and she sighed; it seemed that they were back to gestures once more.

“Do you mean you want us to…” she trailed off, afraid of being presumptuous and interpreting him wrongly.

Blaise nodded and pulled her to him, brushing his lips against hers once again and rolling her onto her back in place of an answer.

As Hermione gave into the kiss, she thought to herself that she could now add a few more things onto her list of why Blaise Zabini was different. _Number eight, she mused, apparently he believes that actions speak louder than words…_

~Finis~

**A.N.** Thank you to the wonderful, Rhiannon and Lioness1120, for beta’ing this for me.


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